Chapter 6
Sophia’s P.O.V
C
The moment the door swings open, I feel the energy in the room shift. Everyone, including Gabriella, turns in unison, their gazes locking onto the tall, broad–shouldered man who strides in with an air of quiet authority.
There was so much elegance, so much grandeur in the way he walked, the way he carried himself, and I realized that this was a person of so much importance.
D
My stomach knots the second I recognize him–he’s the same man I saw this morning at the daycare, the one who saved me from fainting on the ground. And now, he’s here, stepping in behind the Director of the institute, his expression unreadable but his presence undeniable.
I could feel all eyes shift toward him the instant he entered the class. The students straightened, some even pulling their hair back and putting on deliberate smiles. Others looked at the man with quiet respect, their awe clear in how their eyes widened at the striking stranger.
Gabriella, refusing back down, squares her shoulders and narrows her eyes the moment she takes him in. “Alright,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.
Would you mind explaining what exactly is so lewd and immoral about this painting? Is it because the subjects are nude? Or is it because they’re having sex? Because, honestly, that’s some prehistoric mentality, and I can name several famous artists who have made a living off painting erotica. Her voice drips with challenge, her chin tilted in defiance.
Her words hung in the air, but the man didn’t flinch. He didn’t even seem bothered by her outburst. Instead, he stepped forward with a calm, collected demeanor, his eyes never leaving the painting. He pointed at it, his voice low and firm, yet calm, as if trying to explain something complex to a child.
*The painting isn’t the problem,” he said, his words clear and steady. “The subject is.”
Gabriella scoffs, but something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle. There’s weight behind his words, something more than just a moral objection. I glance at the painting again–two figures tangled together, their bodies entwined in a way that could be passion or something darker, more desperate.
A flicker of unease runs through me, but I push it aside. For the moment, I have to forget that the subject includes my husband, and I must judge
it as an Art teacher alone.
But Gabriella isn’t having it. “Oh, please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s the same argument people used against Caravaggio and Egon Schiele. Honor’s just a word for the weak. Right Sophia? She’s the teacher and she let us paint whatever we wanted. You don’t get to decide-
“Ah, but I do,” the man cuts in smoothly, his tone sharp enough to slice through the air. His gaze finally shifts, landing directly on me. “And I think she knows why.”
My breath catches. The room suddenly feels too small, too stifling, and the way he’s looking at me–like he’s waiting for me to understand something is setting off every alarm in my body.
Does he know who I am? Does he know about Tristan?
I watched closely as he held up the painting for all to see, his voice steady, unwavering.
The man didn’t waver, his expression unchanging. “You’re so focused on the image, on the nudity or the act,” he said, his voice unwavering. “But it’s what those subjects represent, what they stand for. The implications of that choice are much more disturbing than what’s portrayed on the
canvas.”
His gaze shifted to me, and for a brief moment, the room fell silent. The weight of his words hung in the air, like something unresolved. Gabriella glanced between us, as if trying to understand why he seemed so sure of himself, his presence commanding, almost as though he had the right to say such things.
She opened her mouth to retort, but I couldn’t shake an unsettling feeling. Something that made me want to ask him more, to know exactly what he meant. But I didn’t. I just stood there, feeling the weight of his judgment in the quiet space between us.
*Look at this,” he said, circling the area with a red pen to highlight the ring on his fourth finger. “He’s wearing a wedding band.” It glinted, mocking me with its twin on my own hand.
A murmur rippled through the room, some people shifting uncomfortably in their seats while others leaned in, drawn to the gravity of his words. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he gestured toward the woman on top of him.
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Chapter 6
“And her?” He paused, letting the silence stretch before delivering the final blow. “She isn t.”
The implication was clear. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. It wasn’t a coincidence.
This was an affair, an act of betrayal hidden beneath stolen glances and hushed conversations. The kind of deception that chipped away at the foundation of trust, leaving nothing but ruins in its wake.
“A man who cannot remain faithful to his wife,” he continued, his voice growing sharper, “has nothing to boast about. He lacks honor. He lacks integrity.”
A murmur ripples through the room, the realization hitting them.
The tension in the room heightens, and I notice discomfort on several faces. Gabriella stands there, her expression frozen, as though she wants to deny it, but the truth has already been laid bare for everyone to see.
I take a deep breath, my heart beating a little faster, but there’s an odd sense of relief creeping into my chest.
With each word, it’s like I’m lifting a weight I didn’t know I was carrying. The satisfaction of the truth coming to life, of calling this betrayal exactly what it is, is like a balm to my soul.
1 almost want to smile, but I don’t.
Maybe it was the validation of seeing infidelity called out for what it was–wrong, unacceptable. Perhaps it was the simple fact that the world hadn’t grown so desensitized that such things could go unchallenged.
I exhaled slowly, my gaze lingering on the man who had just helped me in a way that even he didn’t know.
No one speaks for what feels like an eternity. It’s as if the entire room is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the tension. But it doesn’t, and in that stillness, I realize something within me has shifted.
He has spoken the truth, and for once, I feel… relieved.
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